A week went by, then I had another moment of inspiration…
Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I studied weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of judicial lore,
There I nodded, always canning, I would rather have been tanning,
With the palm fronds gently fanning, fanning while I grab a snore.
“Fouldes v Willoughby,” I muttered, “Conversion is such a bore –
Two more cases, nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
I cursed myself for September when I had yet twelve weeks more.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; stupidly I tried to borrow
CANs from friends of equal sorrow – sorrow for their poor labor –
For their sad and disappointing excuse for legal labor –
And these cases, with volition, had made it their very mission,
To imprison me, totally, without access through a door.
So now as I read word by word, all the arguments found in Bird,
And Campbell, and Roberts and Herd; Herd, which I’d never read before.
False imprisonment cases, handed down from the age of yore,
Left me wanting nothing more.
Deep in Bettel, the convention, you require basic intention;
Harmful contact’s all that’s needed for the litigator.
Also, foreseeability, carries some culpability,
For the tort’s liability, you liable tortfeasor.
Every possible claim for damages placed on the court’s floor -
Special damage, nothing more.
Torts gives you theory aplenty, essay word length – ten times twenty,
Thinking about the future based on the torts that came before.
Should discrimination be one? Or is the tort law almost done?
New causes of action are fun, fun but for the tortfeasor.
Yet dignitary interest of victims you can’t ignore,
Victims matter – nothing more!
Soon I started to get dozy, for in the books I was nose deep,
When I caught myself in the middle of a rather loud snore.
Through bleary eyes, I saw a ghost, a blonde-haired raven was its host,
I saw the Gooldish raven coast, coast through the wide open door.
“What do you mean by that?” it asked, then it settled on the floor,
Watching fiercely and no more.
“What must you have done to defame?” “Does it help if the words are tame?”
Questions kept coming until I couldn’t take it anymore.
It was a phantom, this I knew, but real it felt, both real and true,
Telling me of defendants who, who caused a tortious furore.
Frustrated, I threw at the raven a can of albacore.
Quoth the raven, “Tortfeasor!”
“Phantom!” said I, “Thing of evil! – phantom still, if prof or devil! –
Whether madness sent, or whether it came from some Aussie shore,
Torts isn’t gym! I declare it! These case details – I can’t bear it!
A failing grade?! I will wear it! Wear it like a pinafore!
Leave me be, and let me vacation on a tropical shore!”
Quoth the raven, “Tortfeasor!”
And the phantom, never flitting, still is sitting, while I’m shitting,
Bricks of stress and fear, fear and stress all over my bedroom floor.
Is it that I really fear him? Or is this avoidance of Crim?
For it’s that course where things are grim, grim cuz I didn’t CAN more.
Exams will be done and next term it’s negligence we’ll explore.
And then torts, nevermore!